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BACK HOME 



BY 

CHARLES PHILLIPS 



Far off thou art, yet ever nigh: 
I have thee still and I rejoice: 
I prosper, circled with thy voice: 

I cannot lose thee tho' I die! 

— Tennyson. 



SAN FRANCISCO 

THE JAMES H. BARRY COMPANY 

1911 



T^'^^3 

■^''2' 



Copyright 1911 

By CHARLES PHILLIPS 

[Third Edition] 



TRSNSFERRED FRO.^1 

COPYRIGHT OfHCt 

3 MN iS13 



DEZDICAXION 



TO ALL WHO LOVE, AND LOVING 
U N DERSTAN D 



'WHERE MOTHER IS, IS BEST.' 



Sure as the winged arrow shoots, 
Straight as the crow flies west, 

Unerring as the eagle sweeps 
The heavens to his nest, 

My heart sends all its wishings home — 
"Where Mother is, is best." 

When Fortune smiles in this fair land, 
And all the world is dressed 

In sunny garb, and all the skies 
Smile at my soul's glad zest, 

Oh, then would I go singing home — 
"Where Mother is, is best." 

And when the gloom and shadows come, 

And, faltering in the test, 
I fail, and fain would lean upon 

Some heart for strength and rest. 
Ah, then my heart turns wearily, 

"Where Mother is, is best." 

Where Mother is, there Heaven is, 
There all the charms possessed 

Of peace and joy and dear content 
Await at love's behest — 

Where mother is my heart would stay — 
"Where Mother is, is best." 

Yes, I would bring my burdens home. 

And lay my head at rest 
In her dear lap; or singing bring 

The fairest fortunes guessed 
In our long dreams, to make her glad! 

"Where Mother is, is best!" 

God keep her safe among those scenes 

Of home so dear, so blest! 
O, long as love and mem'ry live. 

And long as Faith's confessed. 
My heart v/ill cry to all the world, 

"Where Mother is, is best." 



PART I 



Stay, stay at home, my heart, and rest, 
Home-keeping hearts are happiest. 
The bird is safest in its nest: 
To stay at home is best! 

— Longfellow. 



BACK HOME 



NO, I do not forget. For all my 
days 
Are thronged with thoughts of 
you, my evening hours 
Are filled with recollections. Day and 

night 
My comings and my goings all are 

sweetened 
And pleasant made with memories of 

you. 
Now even as I write to bring you near 
With chronicles of old home days, my 

heart 
Is sudden clamorous made with many 

thoughts 
As if, with yearning's eager, hurried 

hand 
I threw the door of all the past wide 

open 
And started all the trembling wings of 

memory 
To rushing flight and swift returning 

welcome. 
Ah, well they know me, these dear 

doves of memory, 
And clamorous they beat their wings 

around me, 
Till, in the soft onrushing music made 
By the attentive flutter of their wings, 



12 BACK HOME 

I hear a strain of sweet familiar voices; 

Till, in the cloudy hypnos of their wing- 
ing, 

Mine eyes see visions of old scenes I 
love. 

If the drovvsed solace of the dreaming 

pipe 
Were m.ine, how languorously now 

might I 
Lean back upon the soft surcease it 

brings 
And give the curling smoke free will to 

weave 
Its visionary pictures! But the sound 
Of memory's persistent wings is none 
The less inviting, tho' I sit alone 
In smokeless solitude. Nay, but I sit 
Apart from all the life about me, living 
A part in other days. No little thing 
Here in this room, so far from home, 

but speaks 
Of home and you. Father, I never hear 
The sound of building and of saw and 

hammer, 
But am reminded of the days you built, 
And we, your boys, were early let from 

school 
To bring your dinner pail. I wonder 

now 
How often we took furtive "peeks" be- 
neath 
The cover of that pail to see if doughnuts 



BACK HOME 13 

Were tempting there, in brown, sweet, 

odorous richness? 
Even the table that I write upon 
Speaks of the little home-made desk of 

pine 
You made for us — that wondrous treas- 
ury 
Of slates, and pencils, and geographies, 
And, in the later years, repository 
Of "Poultry Heralds" and the "Bee 

Journal," 
And neatly stored-up housewife's handy 
things. 

Ah, but I love that little old pine desk, 
And many a time my heart goes longing 

back 
To the dark evenings when my little 

lamp — 
The smallest lamp of all, the only one 
That had a pedestal — showed me the 

way 
Thro' Arden forest and Verona's streets, 
And lit the page of Lear's wild stormy 

story. 
For it was at that desk I, elbows crook'd. 
And eager-eyed, and on the chair's sharp 

edge, 
First learned the lore of Shakespeare. 

Ah, what worlds 
Of wonder Avon's bard has shown me 

since 



14 BACK HOME 

Those days of Charles and Mary Lamb! 

What desks 
Of night-hour study and of swift day toil 
I've delved and scribbled at since those 

first hours 
Out in the kitchen. Then I never 

stirred 
Till from the living room the c.all, thrice 

given, 
Came for the evening prayer. And if, 

sometimes, 
I told my Rosary beads with thoughts 

far off 
In English lanes or on the bright Rialto, 
'Twas but a child's rejoicing in discovery 
Of fairy worlds that he prayed Heaven 

to open. 

Softly! I hear them now — those evening 

prayers. 
And the swift sounds of memory's wings 

become 
The mingled voices of the Rosary. 
First, mother's, low and even — and the 

prayers 
From her dear lips sound now the sweet- 
est music 
My ears will ever hear; — then father's, 

low, 
And in his voice something of solemn 

chant. 
So one by one, with lowly reverence 
The sacred mysteries were told — and 

proudly. 



BACK HOME 15 

If I so hap was chosen to repeat 
Some of the prayers. Ah, vesper voices, 

calling 
Forever to me from the deathless past, 
I hear you and I heed your treasured 



message 



Voices of by-gone days, where sound ye 
now? 

One is uplifted in the Eternal Chorus; 

One, of that Mary named for her whom, 
suppliant. 

We begged sweet intercession, still is 
breathing 

Prayers for us all, tho' foreign bound- 
aries sunder; 

One, of the little sister, lifts to-night 

A pleading prayer, upon the western 
plain; 

One is to-night with yours again com- 
mingled 

In evening prayer. And one — ah! since 
I know 

No blessing breathes there that I do not 
share in. 

With all the joy that being remembered 
brings, 

And all the sorrow separation makes, 

One voice, I cry to you across the moun- 
tains, 

Is lifted up in prayer and blessing on 
you, 

In praise to God for all the gifts He's 
given; 



16 BACK HOME 

And chiefest of those gifts the un- 
measured bounty 

Of your dear love and care and constant 
blessing! 

No, I do not forget! 

You live and move in all my work and 

pleasure, 
And would that words could measure 

half the motive 
Of good you daily give me. Think you, 

father, 
That the long, weary days of toil and 

labor. 
Of sweat in sun-hot fields, of cold and 

hardship 
In winter days, were lost? And you, my 

mother! 
In one the truest wife, the dearest 

mother 
A home has ever hidden! Think you 

ever 
The burdens you have borne, the cares 

you've carried, 
The sorrows you have hidden in your 

heart, — 
Think you these all, my mother, have 

been only 
The weight of crosses? Nay! if on your 

soul 
They have perforce weighed down, upon 

your children 
They sit as crowns, with all the signal 

uplift 



BACK HOME 17 

Of coronals! And in our hearts we 

carry 
The greatest heritage that man may 

claim — 
Sonship to a great mother, a good 

father! 

No, I do not forget! There in that valley 

Named for the Holy Cross, I see in 
vision 

The little church you built, first monu- 
ment 

To rise upon the plain in verity 

To prove the Risen Christ! Now two- 
score years 

Have put their marks of wind and 
weather on it. 

But still it stands, those hand-hewn tim- 
bers firm 

Upon their base, those joists so staunchly 
joined 

That age and usage cannot shake their 
setting; 

Still from that cross-tipped spire the little 
bell 

Rings out its summons thro' the parish 
bounds, 

To gather in the sons and children's 
children 

Of that far day when your strong voice 
commanded. 

And your still stronger arm lifted and 
guided 



18 BACK HOME 

The last great beam of that first prairie 
chapel. 

And in they troop; and if, among them 
now, 

Few there may be who keep you in re- 
membrance — 

None but that dear and only sister left, 

And that one brother who remains to- 
day, 

(And, in the choir loft, those who know 
your worth, 

And mingle thoughts of you in chant 
and hymnal) — 

Still there is one, one unforgetting 
Friend, 

One Comrade of those early days whom 
time 

Can never change, whose loyalty is 
deathless. 

Whose love is Life itself, whose com- 
radeship 

Has been your constant help — aye, there 
is One 

Who never will forget. Tljere on the 
altar, 

There in that tabernacle that your hands 

Built of the insensate, now all sacred, 
wood, 

He is, in plenteous grace. Your hands, 
my father, 

Built Him this roof; and He will still 
remember 



BACK HOME 19 

There was a time when doors were 

closed against Him, 
''No room within!" Your skill, my 

father, fashioned 
This shelter and this little sanctuary, 
And He will not forget that time there 

was 
When He had not whereon to lay His 

Head. 

little church, on the Wisconsin prairie, 
Where the rich valley of the Holy Cross 
Pays tribute to the fruitful sun, you call 

me 
Many a time when thro' the hurrying 
city 

1 hasten on my way and hear bells ring- 

ing — 
You call me to your humble sanctuary; 
And many a time, tho' plain and peak 

may sunder, 
I kneel within your hallowed quiet. 

There 
I entered first the portals of the chosen. 
When sacramental waters, given in 

baptism, 
Regenerated me. There first I heard 
The sweetly solemn music of the organ 
And listened to uplifted voices singing. 
I see you now, O little church, well 

named 
After that saint upon whose feast my 

father 



20 BACK HOME 

First saw the light! St. Patrick, great 

Apostle 
Of Christ's unfailing Faith! Behold the 

tribute, 
My father, in his strong prime, paid his 

patron; 
True sign he loved and honored that fair 

name 
His natal day bestowed him. You, O 

saint 
Of Tara's Hill, whom Erin's sons re- 
member 
With love and praise — you brought to 

Druid Ireland 
The light of Truth, the bounty of God's 

presence. 
Behold! one son bearing your noble name 
Gave of his best, his all, to lift the same 
Tri-signet cross above the prairie pines, 
Thus bearing on the undying fire you 

lighted 
On Tara's summit and all Ireland's 

hills;— 
So praising God through you, his great 

Apostle! 
Pray for my father, O St. Patrick! Bles- 
sings 
Ask the good Christ for him with every 

stroke 
Of that far prairie bell. Fill all the 

heavens 
With prayers and blessings for him, O 

good people. 
Kneeling to God beneath the roof he 

builded! 



BACK HOME 21 

Mass over, surely yoii remember, folks, 
How the wide church-yard thronged with 

people! Sunday 
Was a long week's event in those old 

days; 
Then neighbors met for friendly chat and 

gossip. 
Stored up, since last the whirring wheels 

of buggies 
And Sunday rigs and democrats and 

buckboards 
Broke rudely, with swift clouds of dust, 

upon 
The housewife's gossip, or new jelly 

recipe, 
Or youths' and maidens' all self-con- 
scious silence. 
Or farmers' talk of crops and cattle 

sales: — 
O, all the world was centred there, and 

sorrow 
Was given sweet surcease in friendly 

words, 
The Sunday guest was greeted and made 

known 
To cousins and relations (by the dozen), 
The price of wheat was argued, and 

potatoes 
Were championed as next year's banner 

crop. 
The widow's tears sprung fresh upon 

the sight 
Of stalwart men who but a week before 



22 BACK HOME 

Had borne her life-companion to the 

grave; 
And by her smiled the new-made mother, 

proud 
To show her hushling baby to the 

women, 
While sage advice was poured into her 

ears, 
And questions asked and answered with 

that wisdom 
The heritage of mothers since first Eve 
Nursed Adam's sons. Life, pulsant and 

refulgent, 
Hummed in the churchyard, while the 

roses bloomed 
And filled the paths with all the sum- 
mer splendor 
Of sunny June. 

And then all warningless 
A wind came stirring from the grove 

of oaks 
And blew the bending roses till the grass 
Was strewn with flowery snow. And 

so our eyes 
Follow the warning finger of the wind 
And seek the grave-yard's grassy slopes, 

where sleep 
Those who await us, yet whose memory 
Remains as living as the verdant sod 
That marks their corporal resting place. 

Beneath 
This slender marble shaft, all mellowed 

now 



BACK HOME 23 

And stained with age, the dust of loved 
ones lies, 

A father's mother, whom I never saw; 

A brother and two little baby sisters. 

How often have I knelt beside that plot 

And prayed for them, the while my won- 
dering fancy 

Strove to make pictures of the might- 
have-been. 

These were the first graves I had known. 
Yet death 

Spoke never from them in its bitterness, 

For rest and hushed repose, among the 
roses. 

Or underneath the quiet of the snows, 

Breathed round about. Ah! graves have 
opened since 

To dull my heart and darken all my 
vision; 

Yet now, with some of life's long lessons 
learned. 

Those first graves ever seem to bring 
the truer 

And holier message. Rather this — the 
thought 

Of them has helped me grasp the heavy 
meaning 

Of graves that hold hearts of my actual 
knowledge. 

No grave was ever opened to receive 

The silent dead that did not, too, enclose 

Some of the very heart-core of the living. 



24 BACK HOME 

So runs the tale! Death in the midst 
of life! 

The living crowd all busy with its talk- 
ing, 

Laughs in reply beside the sleeping 
throng; 

But even rarest gossip has an end, 

And tired young mothers must haste 
home again. 

And farmers to their stock, and lovers 
hurry 

To keep their tryst — and widows, heavy 
hearted. 

Must turn their weary feet once more 
to hearths 

That coldly wait: "Up, Dick! Whoa, 
Jenny!"— "Hurry!" 

The road resounds with voice and whirr 
of wheels, 

And all the world is for a little while 

A dust cloud! Down we go, with call- 
ing voices, 

Along the rattling road, and leave be- 
hind 

The church and churchyard, soon — how 
well I know it — 

To brood in strange and solitary quiet 

Through all the long, bright Sunday, 
and the days 

Of plow, or harvest, till the bell again 

Summons the prairie people to the altar. 

Yet, One remains; and, in the wondrous 
quiet 



BACK HOME 25 

That broods about, that little church and 

churchyard 
Seem suddenly the land of heart's desire, 
The domain of the disenthralled, the 

gateway 
Of wide eternity itself. 

But down the road 

The spokes spin and the hoofs make 
merry clatter. 

I know the old road well. To-day re- 
turning, 

I'd look for Padden's store and once 
again 

Know the good smacking taste of ginger 
snaps: 

For many a time you bought us ginger- 
snaps 

On the way home from Mass. That I 
remember, 

And the white cottage hidden in the 
bushes 

Between the "Corners" and the church. 
And now 

I vaguely see the old bent bearded man 

Who greeted us from out the cottage 
gateway. 

One other memory of early Sundays 

I keep secure — the days when fate de- 
creed 

We children stay at home. But solemn 
service 

Was celebrated still, the round-turned 
legs 



26 BACK HOME 

Of our toy-table, stately candlesticks, 
Cigar boxes our altar, and a towel, 
(The brighter-patterned and the deeper 

fringed 
The better) for our vestment. The re- 
turn 
From Mass we watched with eager wish 

and wonder, 
Hoping for "goodies" or, far better still, 
Some cousin's visit. If the cousiii 

came — 
And truly then, "the more the merrier," 
What escapades we had in that red cart, 
Disk-wheeled, you made for us! And O, 

the wonder 
Of watching swallows build their 'dobe 

houses 
Under the barn eves; or the martens 

fly 
Out from the bird-house, and dart in 

again. 
And there were straw-piles for the 

wildest slides. 
Where only clouds of chaff could drown 

our shrieks. 
Of Indian-like delight; then hay-loft 

plunges. 
When from the dizzy rafters down we 

leaped 
Upon the prickly hay. That took more 

daring 
Than hunting eggs, or chasing little 

pigs— 



BACK HOME 27 

Unless a sharp-beaked setting hen defied 

us, 
Or angry sow snapped grunting at our 

heels. 
Out in the apple orchard, O what finds 
Of wind-fallen, juicy-hearted, golden 

crabs, 
Or mealy "winters"! 

Ah, how memory 

Revives the past; the world takes on 
the hues 

Of that bright portulaca bed, the pride 

Of all the women folks. O happy days! 

Sweet days of wild flowers, plucked when 
barefooted 

We went across the fields with dinner 
pails. 

Finding wild roses and sweet-william 
by the furrow. 

O, what a thorny way it was when feet, 

All flower-belated, must make haste 
across 

The cruel stubble! Roses then had 
thorns; — 

And life had lessons, tho' we knev/ it 
not. 

The day returning from the fields, I saw 

A green snake dart between the sun- 
scorched stones 

Out in the trodden pasture, lives still 
vivid 

And makes the sight of crawling creat- 
ures still 



28 BACK HOME 

So sense-abhorrent that I shudder at it. 
And when, pray, will I ever mount a 

horse 
Without recalling that dread hour of 

terror 
When from the back of our old dapple, 

Fanny, 
Plodding her well-known way from bars 

to stable, 
I fell, amid the clatter of the harness, 
Into the mud — and fairly died of fright? 
To-day she browses in Elysian pastures. 
Curly, the dog, whose dumb fidelity 
Made change of masters, death, is dead 

and gone 
These many years, and even his silky 

coat 
That made a cap for his new owners — 

(O, 
How heartless that grim fate seemed 

then to me!), 
Has served its time. The little disk- 
wheeled cart. 
Whose red was faded by the rain to 

pink. 
Made kindling, with the little bird-house 

sharing 
It's axy fate. What tragedies those 

were! 
And time has never healed their poig- 
nancy! 



BACK HOME 29 

How memory beguiles me, on and on! 

The moving finger writes, the Past re- 
lives 

In passing panorama. So it is 

Thro' all my waking days there center 
'round 

The thought of you, these pictures of the 
Past; 

Thirst brings me bending o'er the well 
again; 

Hot city pavements lure my feet in 
wishing 

Down elm-green lanes, o'er cool dark 
kitchen floors; 

And tempting pitchers of the lemonade 

That mother mixed so magically, tease 

My reminiscent taste with icy tinkle 

And beady sweat. O, once again to wear 

A big straw hat, with dripping rhubarb 
leaves 

Doused with the well's clear brew, 
packed in its crown! 

O, happy days of bird and brook and 
rose-leaf! 

O smiling days of boyhood, gone for- 
ever! 



LOST LITTLE BOY. 



O little boy, how pure you are, how fair! 

And what a wonder in your big gray eyes, 

Like to the heavens, when sweet suns 
surprise 
The silver rains! I see you laughing there 
Light-heart, so far away! No cloud of care 

Has crossed the sunny April of your skies. 

Ah, how the world has changed! My sore 
heart cries 
For one brief little day your joy to share! 

Lost little boy, I love you as of old. 

And all the dear companions of your day; 
But, ah, how futilely for you I sigh! 
Yet in the night my world-worn hands I 
fold 
And kneel me down to the Great Lord to 
pray — 
For all that's good of me, sweet boy, is 
you, so fair, so high! 



PART II 



Faces and places are soon forgot 

In the pride of life's endeavor, 
But the home of the child, be it palace or col, 

Lives on in the mind forever. 

— James Riley. 



^(T O^ evening rested quietly and still 
tJu Upon the dewy lawn! The moon 

^ came up 

Over the eastern groves, and silvered all 
The dreamy world, and made more sil- 
very still 
The music of sweet horns we listened to, 
Played on by magic breath within the 

grove. 
Clear on the silence, falling when the 

horns 
Ceased their far cries and melody of 

bugling. 
Broke a shrill monotone from the still 

pond. 
The hymnal of the frogs. The sylvan 

town 
Scarce stirred within its shadowy shel- 
ter. Stars 
Beamed steady in the great untroubled 

sky. 
The while the clear moon rode her 

wonted course. 
And now, perhaps, a cool wind, rising 

up, 
Makes mother and aunt Minnie draw 

their aprons 
Over their shoulders. "It is growing 

cool!" 
Still silence reigns. Then far along 

the night 
A warning engine cry, and soon the 

darkness 



36 BACK HOME 

Is pierced and cloven with a meteor, 
The quiet shattered by the rumbling 

noise 
Of whirring steel across the shuddering 

bridge. 
Out from the engine's throat the smoke 

and sparks 
Belch forth, lit by the sudden livid 

glow 
Of fireman's open door — as sudden 

closed; 
And like a frightened terror, on and 

on 
The night Express speeds on its way, 

soon lost 
Behind the echoing hills. 'Tis bed- 
time now. 

The days grow shorter and the wind 

more cool. 
Till evenings in the open air give away 
To fireside hours. The frost comes, 

and the snow. 
And winter rules in bitter winds that 

drift 
The snow against the window-panes, 

and frost 
That paints the glass fantastic with its 

scrolls. 
When with warm breath we blow upon 

the pane 
And clear away the feathery congeal- 

ment 
To peer into the night, behold a world 



BACK HOME 37 

Brought to a wondrous pause upon its 
way 

All still beneath the mystic witchery 

Of winter! Blue and pale it lies en- 
thralled, 

Dumbly submissive to the buffet-breath 

Of polar blasts, yet strangely beauti- 
ful 

In all its utter hush. Turn we again 

Back to the fire, the reading lamp, the 
books. 

Or mayhap to the puzzling strategy 

Of checker-board. Dear evening hours 
at home! 

Ah! many a world-worn heart would 
give, to-night, 

A brilliant barter of triumphant nights 

For one brief hour of your good, peace- 
ful quiet. 

The checker-board — life wrought in 
miniature. 

With wisdom's slow reward made ac- 
tual 

In king-rows — man's resources — kept 
intact. 

And folly's giddy way brought to con- 
fusion. 

The victory was never mine! — but I 

Learned more than checker playing at 
the game. 

Study there was — and books always al- 
lured me. 

("Only this page to finish," was the cry 



38 BACK HOME 

At bedtime always). So now, best of all, 

I like to think of that small reading cir- 
cle 

Our household made, when, gathered all 
together, 

We laughed at Peter Pepper's wild ad- 
ventures 

In Ireland — read aloud. But over all 

The books, and better even than my 
Shakespeare, 

Were those old tales you told of Ireland, 
father! 

You have forgotten them, perchance, 
nor mind the telling; 

But not so I! Those stories still live 
on 

In memory, a constant source of pleas- 
ure, 

And all the wondrous land of glens and 
fairies 

Of moonlit abbey ruins and of bridges 

Built by the "good people" — Ballyhader- 
een. 

Loch Gara, with its fiddling lads aferry- 
ing 

The lassies over, — the "Big House," — 
the rooks 

And owls that made the abbey tower 
dreadful 

With ghostly portent; all, all this re- 
mains, 

The land I mapped all clear in my 
young mind's eye 



BACK HOME 39 

While eager ears were hearkening to 
your stories; 

'Tis just as fresh and green in my imag- 
ining 

As in your you-thful memory. Nor ever 

Can heavy winds go soaring thro' the 
night 

But I, almost in childish terror, live 

The "Night of the Big Wind" over 
again; 

I hear the scream and booming of the 
tempest, 

The rattle of the flying slate-roof shin- 
gles, 

The roar of all the wild, unearthly tu- 
mult 

That sails along the gale, as if old ocean 

Himself in anger, came to sweep your 
threshold. 

"An awful night at sea!" I hear you say. 

"Great shipping scattered and de- 
stroyed." All Ireland 

Was filled with fugitives from off the 
sea. 

And ballad singers were abroad, recount- 
ing 

The havoc of the wind. Now, thro' the 
black 

And shivering night, I see the men out, 
tying 

The oat stacks down, and fastening 
the house roofs 



40 BACK HOME 

To save them. Then a wilder, fiercer 

crying 
Comes on the wind's voice, and a sud- 
den crash! 
And tumbling from the chimney falls a 

stone! 
It struck "Aunt Peggy" on the head: — 

see! I remember! 
Do you remember this? A little lad, 
Sudden awakening in the night-stilled 

house 
And finding himself utterly alone. 
Out, terrified, he leaped, and sped away 
Across the fields, white, naked, like a 

fairy. 
And frightening all the rabbits in the 

furze. 
Crying his grief and terror to the winds 
Till loving arms — the arms he sought — 

secured him! 

Now, far at sea, a sailing ship appears. 
With precious freight — one of those ar- 
gosies 
Of hope and sorrow, bitterness and joy, 
Poor stricken Ireland set upon the sea 
To find their way to "rainbow's end!" 

The storms 
Lash the loud sea to yawning rage; the 

wind 
Blows every way but journey's way; the 

stars 
And all the heavens are blotted out in 
darkness. 



BACK HOME 41 

Sick and despairing grow the once brave 

exiles, 
So pitiless the power of Heaven seems 

turning 
Against their every hope and prayer. 

Yet one, 
A young lad, busy with his tools of trade 
When need finds use for them, makes 

hearts look up 
And smile and take new courage from 

the lesson 
Youth teaches. Friends he makes, and 

cheer he brings 
Wherever his light steady step and eyes 
Of smiling candor go. The same lad 

grows 
In strength and sinew (honoring the 

calling 
Of Nazareth's good Saint), till man- 
hood's years 
Are won. The days speed on; the New 

West calls 
And so the far Wisconsin prairie wins 
The best of Canada. O men and women 
Who braved the frontier, never counting 

cost 
Of ease and comforts given for the ma- 
king 
Of hearts and homes! O pioneers! 

What poem 
Can tell your worth! What song can 

sing the courage 
Of tender women, out upon the prairie! 



42 BACK HOME 

Armies win martial glory, statesmen live 
In stirring words on history's bright 

pages, 
But Fame's far splendor, nor the soldier's 

glory 
Can ever measure all the honor due 
The pioneer — the quiet men and women 
Who made the new land home! You 

were the builders! 
Church, spire, and many a roof attest it! 

Yet 
In our old home are prizes far more 

precious 
That tell one's skill in Joseph's goodly 

trade, 
And speak the magic of a mother's pres- 
ence. 
No need to tell — your father was before 

you 
A carpenter and cabinet-maker, deft 
In all the arts of his important trade 
That made the builder, in his day, the 

carver 
Of bed as well as beam, of chair and 

table 
As well as roof and floor. Nor need to 

say 
The gentle art of making home was 

learned, 
The nimble finger trained in needles' art, 
Dear mother, long before the prairie 

won you. 



BACK HOME 43 

For there the little farm-honse in the 

trees 
Stood as a landmark for all travelers — 
"The house that has the curtains"; and 

the guest 
Found a sweet gentlewoman's magic 

spell 
Making "a garden in the wilderness." 

St. Patrick's day again! The winter, 

passing, 
Gives glimpses of the green beneath, as if 
A pledge that Ireland's shamrocks still 

are growing. 
Come, then, pin on your green, and let 

us go 
Out to the "Corners" for the celebration. 
Rich oratory rings along the rafters. 
And from the organ-loft the stirring 

notes 
Of "Patrick's Day," "The Wearing of 

the Green," 
"Faith of Our Fathers" — and then, "God 

Save Ireland" 
Sweep thro' our Irish hearts! And lo, 

once more 
The best thoughts of the past return, the 

years 
Long fled, renew, the world grows young 

again! 



44 BACK HOME 

Then "God Save Ireland" say we all of 
us, 

And God save you and bless you boun- 
tifully! 

St. Patrick's rarest blessings all be yours. 

O may the sorrows of your heart be few, 

And always like the sorrows of old Ire- 
land, 

With Hope's bright rainbow ever shin- 
ing thro', 

And may your joys and blessing be as 
many 

And all as beautiful as all the sham- 
rocks 

In all of Ireland, with the dew upon 
them! 

St. Patrick's day again, God bless us; 
surely 

This is the night then for potato cake — 

Potato Cake! Ah, surely, one forgets 

The sharp points of this life when 
creamy patties, 

Swimming in golden butter, piping hot. 

Melt in one's mouth. Potato cake! 
There's not 

In all of Ireland, nor the whole world 
over 

One who can make potato cake like you, 

Mother, — no Irish blarney this, I tell you! 

Only a little of the dear old story 
Have I reviewed. Thoughts throng with 
memory, 



BACK HOME 45 

Words rush to picture all the past, and 

heart 
Warms and beats higher in remembering. 

Now comes the blessed Christmas time 

again, 
The time when all hearts hark them back 

to home, 
When families gather — if God be so 

kind — 
And sons and daughters, parents and 

their children. 
Assemble 'round the board. I count the 

days 
Till I may be beneath the old home roof 
With you once more, making the present 

time 
Better than best of "olden times." God 

grant 
We'll keep our Christmas — and our New 

Year, too, 
As now we plan, together, happy, glad 
Of blessings many, and so light of heart 
That "Merry Christmas" is the only word 
Can tell our story. Until then, "Good- 
night" 
I call across the country, knowing well 
That all my thoughts, wherever I may 

roam, 
Will be for you, the dear old folks back 

home. 



A VOICE IN THE CITY. 



Draw the veil closer, closer! I would fain, 
Forever in the vision land remain! 
There is a shielding sense of peace I crave. 
Of shelter from the bruising world. The 

grave 
Alone, perhaps, can truly give it me; 
For then my spirit, freed, may range the sea 
And, love-attended by unfettered dreams. 
Know the sweet Truth beyond May-be and 

Seems. 
Draw the veil closer! Take me quickly now 
O pilot on the dream-ship's starlit prow! 
Save me, I cry! The iron is entering in, 
And soon my soul will only hear the din 
Of black machinery. For all too soon 
My life-pulse throbs to this discordant tune. 
Beating so tirelessly, my dulling sense 
Will yet mark music in its clashing tense. 
And, deafened to the song of star and flower, 
Bend and be broken in its crushing power. 
Draw the veil closer! Save me from the day 
That dreadfully impends, when, far away, 
The waves of my dear sea in vain will weave 
The song I love so well. O let me leave 
This alien place before I utterly die! 
For even now my soul makes feeble cry! 



[Written for the eightieth birthday of my 
father, Patrick Phillips, March 17, 1908. 
First published for private circulation, De- 
cember, 1908; reprinted August, 1911; third 
edition, November, 1911.] 



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